


50 Shades of Greige (50 Shades Rewritten)

by magzdilla



Series: 50 Shades of Greige (50 Shades rewritten) [1]
Category: 50 shades of, Fifty Shades of Grey - All Media Types
Genre: 50 Shades of Grey - Freeform, Consent, Contracts, F/M, Inspired by Fifty Shades of Grey, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:33:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26648317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magzdilla/pseuds/magzdilla
Summary: What if Anastasia and Christian had been slightly better people?
Relationships: Christian Grey/Anastasia Steele
Series: 50 Shades of Greige (50 Shades rewritten) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1938868
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

My phone buzzed on the nightstand as I yanked a hairbrush through my uncooperative hair. I scanned the message, then leaned back in my chair and fairly yelled, “Are you seriously texting me from our own living room?!” I immediately got a response text that read: “Bitch, I’m contagious. Come get the recorder LOL”

I walked from my bedroom to where Kate was curled up on the couch, surrounded by a considerable fort of iPad accessories, crumpled Kleenex & half empty NyQuil bottles, her red hair in an unwashed, riotous halo around her head. She rasped, “Recorder’s on the counter, thank you hon.” Today was supposed to be Kate’s big interview with an influential industrialist in Seattle, but the simple act of forgetting to get a flu shot had completely sidelined her. Last month, she covered for me big-time with our psych professor when I was late with a term paper, so I owed her this favor—which in this case turned out to be today’s substitute interview gig for our less-than-illustrious school paper. But she was the editor and I was her roomie/assistant editor and she couldn’t afford to lose out on this. Probably wouldn’t be a big deal, & I like road trips anyway.

“Want me to bring you back some of that Pad Thai from down the street?” I asked, wrapping myself up in scarves.  
“Extra spicy,” she whispered, mock-blessing me with a waggling her fingers.  
“Okay. Off to Lois Lane it,” I winked at her and flounced out the door.

After navigating the mid-day snarl of Seattle traffic, I finally found myself standing in front of the massive (if architecturally unimaginative) steel & concrete behemoth of Grey Enterprises. “Somebody likes Brutalism,” I murmured as I pushed my way through the revolving doors.

I approached the gorgeous, blonde Nordic Valkyrie behind the desk and managed to get out, “Uh… Annie Steele to see Christian Grey. I mean, for Katherine Kavanaugh?”  
The woman frowned and scanned her desktop, then seemingly decided I wasn’t a threat, handed me a Visitor badge (how official!) and waved me to the elevator. Once in the penthouse level lobby, I was greeted by two more Nordic goddesses (was he cloning them or something?) and told to wait. To my horror, I then realized that Kate had given me no notes, no research whatsoever, no context for the questions I was supposed to ask. In a panic, I started googling “Christian Grey” and absorbing anything relevant: ruthless multimillionaire—duh, Harvard business grad–okay okay, age 27–Jesus!

One of the two blondes beckoned me up and informed me I could go into the office. As I approached to open the heavy office door, it swung out at me in an alarming arc, and I collided with a third blonde goddess who was absorbed in some spreadsheets on her tablet.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry, it’s my fault, I should’ve been watching!” The two of us babbled over one another, struggling to maintain our composure as we detangled our purses enough to go our separate ways. This was not a great start. Once in the office I could breathe and look around. That is, if could be called an office: full of menacing looking glass and icy windows, it felt more like a cathedral nave designed by, I don’t know, Le Corbusier.

“Miss Kavanaugh? Everything all right?” said a baritone voice behind me. I whirled around to see the one and only Christian Grey, looking just like his Wikipedia photo. He was indeed attractive, all chiseled cheekbones and feral grey eyes, but it was an eerie, clinical, Patrick Bateman sort of attractiveness. Unnerving, really.

“Sorry, I’m Annie Steele,” I said, extending my hand and proceeded to explain the situation to him as efficiently as possible, hoping he wouldn’t kick me out and screw over Kate’s interview. Thankfully, he seemed amused by the whole thing. He invited me to sit on his elegant white couch, a couch that probably cost more than my car, and offered me some water.

I pulled out the recorder and asked “May I?” He replied stoically, “It wouldn’t be unheard of for an interview.” This whole situation reminded me of something, I couldn’t quite decide what.

“Did Kate go over the details of the interview, where it will be published?” I asked, still setting up the recorder and tablet. “She did; for the student paper. I’ll be conferring the degrees on the graduating class,” he replied, smoothly crossing his legs. I looked up at him in surprise, and felt an unexpected flash of resentment: that this man only five years older than me would be handing out degrees to me and my classmates. Of course he was hyper-wealthy and successful and probably had free reign to do whatever he wanted… probably the source of that resentment.

“I’ll try not to take up too much of your time, I know you’re busy,” I said, clearing my throat. I click on the recorder and start rattling through Kate’s pre-determined list of questions. While remaining polite, he seemed somewhat annoyed, feeding me a bunch of typical corporate buzzwords: synergy, metric-driven, optics, and so on. After ten minutes, I could tell we were both getting bored, so I asked a spontaneous question of my own, spurred by my five minutes of Googling: “Would you ever take your company public?”

“Never,” he said firmly. “It’s my preference and prerogative to maintain control over this corporation and how it’s run.”

“But wouldn’t going public give you more access to capital? More potential investors?” I went on, now genuinely curious, and for the first time Grey seemed to regard me with actual emotion, maybe even the same kind of resentment I’d felt a few minutes earlier. “Never,” he repeated. “I control every aspect of this corporation and I will never allow it to be disrupted by the unpredictability of the market as it stands right now. The only way we flourish is my rules alone.” He was pretty arrogant, but then again you don’t get to be a 27 year old CEO of your own corporation by being St. Francis of Assisi. To accomplish something like this, it stands to reason you had to be kind of an asshole.

This was getting weird and uncomfortable, I should’ve been sticking to the script as Kate wrote it. “Let’s move onto your more adventurous investments. I see you’ve moved into biotechnology? Do you get any pushback from people regarding that?”  
“Pushback? How so?” He asked.  
“Well, from the agricultural industry. Farmers don’t like the idea of their hybrid seedlings being copyrighted by a corporation. It veers into a strange realm of bioethics, doesn’t it?” I asked. After all, owning an entire species of plant seemed insane to me.

He seemed to actually consider this. Rubbing his chin, he said, “The agricultural arm of Grey Enterprises is more interested in the philanthropic pursuit of ending food scarcity. World hunger isn’t simply about people not having food, it’s about stabilizing the socioeconomic state that hungry people live in. You can’t address one without addressing the other.”

I felt I was quickly getting out of my depth and decided to veer to safer, more frivolous questions. I skimmed through Kate’s list: Jesus, Kate, were you really going to ask him about his own adoption?! And if he’s gay?!? There was no way in hell I’d be going there. Keep it safe.

“So, what do you in your off-time, in terms of hobbies?” I asked, hoping he didn’t see the embarrassing questions listed on the tablet.

“My hobbies are varied, exclusive, and private,” he said coolly. This guy was a brick wall. An immaculate, Brutalist brick wall. I was trying not to flounder, but I had to think of something that would be personal, but not intrusive: “What I mean is, say if you had a Tinder profile, what would you say about yourself?”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Miss Steele,” he said, leaning forward, “Were I reduced to using a dating app, Tinder is not the one conducive to my particular proclivities.”

I was gobsmacked. Maybe he was a Grindr user after all? Or maybe a FetLife guy, given his hyper-controlling nature?

The intercom beeped and a disembodied voice stated, “Next meeting in three minutes, Mr. Grey.” Grey clicked a button on the arm of the couch and said, “delay it until four, please.” The voice replied, “are you cer—” and was quickly cut off by Grey clicking the button. I was startled as I was actually trying to wrap this up.

Grey asked abruptly, “What’s your educational background? What are your own plans after graduation?” Again, I was taken by surprise. Why would this man even care? “I’m finishing a double major in anthropology and English Lit. I’m working on my CV and have a job interview lined up with a publishing house here in town,” I said uneasily.

“Would a more corporate, entry level job ever be something of interest?” He asked. Good grief. Was I being headhunted by an actual CEO? Not possible, I decided. This felt suspicious. “That’s an interesting thought, but given my background, I’m not sure I’d have the business acumen to be any kind of asset here,” I said, struggling to be both diplomatic and gracious. Besides, I was a humanities wonk: a Wolf of Wall Street environment would definitely not be for me.

He stood up, and I followed suit, relieved this whole encounter was ending without undue stress. “You’ll allow me to give you a tour,” he said, with quiet authority. I shook my head: “thank you so much, but I’ve taken up too much time already,” and began to pack up my purse.  
“I insist,” he said.  
“And I… have to beat rush hour traffic. But again, thank you.” Keep it polite, keep smiling.  
Grey begrudgingly showed me to the door, opening it for me with an exaggerated flourish, no doubt to keep me from colliding with anymore of his Nordic assistants.

He shook my hand and oh no oh no, there was an electric shocky feeling–atraction? Oh god, not this guy. “We’ll see each other again,” he said, with a serene assurance. “We’ll see,” I said, attempting to imitate his self-assuredness, but likely failing.

On the elevator ride down, I realized what I’d been reminded of but couldn’t place: he was like Shere Khan. Not the Rudyard Kipling version from the Jungle Book, but the version of the character from the Tale Spin cartoon of my childhood: the coldly vicious, corporate raiding tiger. As the elevator doors opened, the remaining Valkryie receptionist jumped in her chair on hearing the thunderclap of my hysterical laughter.

As I was picking up Pad Thai, I called Kate and chewed her out: “Were you really going to ask if he was gay?!” She chortled and coughed, “What? It’s a subversive question to ask! Why, is he gay?”


	2. Chapter 2

Over fragrant Pad Thai and jasmine tea, I broke down the details of the interview to an enraptured Kate as I griped to her how 15 minutes of extra research would have saved my ass. “Babe,” she said, slurping the broth, “This guy has been on the cover of Forbes magazine three times. He gets interviewed on CNBC regularly. If you got your head out of Proust and watched more TV you’d be way better informed about him.”

I shrugged, “You still need to read In Search of Lost Time. You transcribe and stuff, I gotta go to work.” Kate looked dismayed and half-scolded, “Annie, when’s the last time you slept?”  
“Yesterday!” I said, tying my shoes. “I’ll be fine!”  
“So convincing,” she coughed.

Mrs. Clayton gave me a list of errands for the storeroom the instant I clocked in, and I was more than happy for the distraction. Clayton’s Hardware isn’t a bad job, but I receive more than my fair share of sexism from it, mostly from sixty year old men who are utterly astonished when a college girl can miraculously identify an Allen wrench. You’d think it would earn their respect, but my own respect is quickly lost when those same sixty year olds invite me over to their house for drinks because their wives are gone for the weekend.

When I got home, Kate was feeling much better and nearly done with the article. I collapsed on the couch with a smoothie, wanting nothing more than to binge The Office for the tenth time and not think about Grey’s electric handshake. Nope, nope, nope.  
Kate plucked an earbud from out of her ear and cried, “Annie, why’d you take off so fast? This guy wanted to show off to you, you could have had some fun!”  
“Nah,” I scoffed. “I have zero interest in working for Gordon Gecko version 2.0.”  
“He wanted to boooonnnne youuuuu,” Kate sing-songed at me, and I threw a pillow at her still feverish head.  
“Please,” I laughed, “He’s a boss probably like Christopher Walken in Batman Returns when he threw Michelle Pfeiffer out the window.”  
“He’s a what now?” said Kate.  
“Nothing,” I said, idly thinking of Michelle Pfeiffer’s black latex catsuit. Why was I thinking about that?

Finally made it to bed after midnight and lay in my raggedy sheets in the dark, watching the reflections of the street lamp dance on the ceiling. I was reminded of when I was a kid, trying to stay up for as long as possible, just to do it. I was stubborn. Never made it to dawn.

The next day Kate and I puttered around the apartment, finishing our respective projects and I called my mom, fending off her requests for me to invest in whatever her latest MLM scheme was. Essential oils this time around. Love you mom, but no thanks.

Friday night, Kate and I decided to blow off some steam with our pal José, photography student and aspiring stand-up comedian. José has been one of my good friends since freshman year. I was the first person he came out to. We’ve nursed each other through various dramas and turmoils. I’ve cheered him on at amateur drag nights downtown, while he’s cheered me on through various term paper meltdowns. He’s convinced that I’m still in the closet, thanks to my lack of interest in the opposite sex or indeed any sex at all, and I’ve spent years wondering if I was maybe just asexual. It wouldn’t be a big deal if I was, but… the interview threw a monkey wrench into that possibility.

Saturday at work was positively a nuclear retail hell: the POS register died the death, and long lines of frantic weekend deck builders were losing it. After three hours of troubleshooting and ego stroking, things calmed down enough that I could catch my breath behind the register, my back turned to the counter when I heard a familiar baritone: “Hello?”

I turned and oh Jesus in a bucket, it was Grey. I could hear Kate’s voice in my ear singing “boooone youuuuu”. I stammered, “Can I help you?” He chuckled and said, “Have you forgotten me already?”

“No! No, it’s just uh, been a day. What brings you here?” I said, noting his appearance: it was deliberately casual with a fine cable knit sweater, new-looking jeans, and quite-new looking hiking boots.

“I was passing through, and just needed some supplies. It’s nice to see you,” he said, almost warmly. I was flabbergasted and pleased, but also weirdly annoyed that he showed up in a place where I had no choice to but to serve him. If he asked me to find an Allen wrench I think I’d scream.

“Well, let’s take a look around and I’ll get you whatever you need,” I said, sounding like a customer-service-drone.  
“Ah… cable ties?” he said.  
… Cable ties? Like, zip ties?  
I took him to the aisle with the ties, wondering exactly why he’d be here for something he could get off Amazon Prime in less than six hours, but whatever.  
“What brings you to my neighborhood?” I said, collecting the ties into a basket.  
“I’m here for the WSU farming division. They’re doing some research in crop rotation and irrigation tech that I might invest in.”  
“Biotech, right?” I said.  
“Something like that,” he said, distantly.  
“Okay! Anything else?” was my jaunty response.  
“Masking tape.”  
“… masking tape?” I echoed, like a dumbass.  
“Please,” he said.  
I took him to the masking tape, all six varieties of it. This was quite weird.  
“How long have you been with this place?” he said.  
“Four years,” I said. “Since freshman year. They’re good people here.”  
I failed to include the customers in that assessment. I handed him the tape and his hand grasped mine briefly. His skin was very warm. I was very uncomfortable.  
“Anything else?” I said.  
“Some rope,” he said, his voice lower than it was before.  
Okay, what the hell?  
I took him to all the varieties of rope, simultaneously intrigued and unnerved. Maybe my original Patrick Bateman assessment wasn’t too far off. I quickly cut and tied the rope into a neat corded coil for him.  
“You must have been a Girl Scout,” he observed.  
“Uh, I was for awhile but you know, the cookie slinging game, it corrupts the best of us,” I said with a straight face. He looked at me blankly. “Organized things, like girl scouts and church, it uh, didn’t hold my interest,” I explained.  
“So what does hold your interest?” he asked, leaning closer. He smelled amazing. Oh god, oh god. Is this what flirting is? How does anyone do this? Do I attempt to be sexy? Or do I stay sincere?  
“Well, ahh… literature. You know, Proust, Austen, Tolstoy, Bradbury.” I said. Oh yeah, super sexy. He didn’t respond, just stared. I guess the ball was still in my court.  
“Do you need anything else for your DIY project?” I said, burying my fists in the pockets of my apron.  
He looked like he’d just woken up from a deep sleep and said, “Project… what else do you recommend?”  
I glanced at his unblemished L.L. Bean ensemble. “Well, coveralls are a good start.”  
He looked down at himself as if he’d forgotten what he was wearing, and he looked almost annoyed as he fingered the hem of his sweater, like he was wearing a costume that he disliked.

He placed the coveralls in his basket and asked, “How did the article turn out?”  
“Oh! It’s not published yet. Kate’s still editing it. She was disappointed she couldn’t do the interview in person or get any photos.”  
“Would she like any?”  
I hadn’t considered the possibility of him offering… if he was in fact, offering.  
“A photo shoot. A brief one,” he said, decisively.  
“That would actually be amazing!” I said in surprise and relief.  
He handed me a business card. “You will call me tomorrow, before ten a.m.” he said, once again decisive, as if he would accept no argument. As if it wasn’t up to me in any capacity.  
“Yes, of course!” I said. This was fantastic, Kate would be out of her gourd with relief. She had loads of hungry photographers in her contacts, it would be no problem.

“Annie bananny!” yelled a voice and I saw Mrs. Clayton’s son Paul waving frantically. Paul was a good egg, a funny guy who always could be counted on to have your back in a customer rush.  
“You’ll have to excuse me,” I said to Grey, going back into customer mode, “I’ll be in touch.”  
I went over to say hi to Paul who swept me up in a bear hug and we immediately began reciting quotes from the Blues Brothers, which was always kind of our thing. Out the corner of my eye I saw Grey, paying for his purchases and looking put out, as if annoyed to no longer have the servile cashier’s sole attention. I tried to lead Paul over to meet Grey, but Grey merely nodded at me and left the store.  
“Wow,” Paul said. “Rude. Is he an Illinois Nazi?”  
“Nah,” I said, thinking back to his serial killer shopping list. “Not an Illinois one, anyway.”


	3. Chapter 3

Kate was thrilled to get what I learned was a highly coveted photo shoot, and incredibly amused to hear about Grey’s attempt at a normal-guy cosplay. “Awwww, your very first stalker!” she cooed at me. “I can’t believe you made it this far into college without getting one!”

“Oh my god,” I said, rolling my eyes and handing her the business card. “Just call him and schedule it.” She turned the elegant card over, scrutinizing it just like Patrick Bateman would have. She frowned, giving it back to me saying, “You should be the one to call. He’s your connection now.” I spluttered a protest and Kate held up a firm hand: “I’m no dummy. He wants YOU to call him, and I’m mercenary enough to take advantage of that fact. Let’s make it happen.”  
“Who will do the shoot? José?” I ask, fidgeting with the phone.  
“And Travis can do lighting. They’ll be perfect for this if they can both stop themselves from proposing marriage to our Mr. Grey.”  
“He’s not THAT hot,” I objected. This was getting absurd.  
“Bitch, you know he is,” Kate cackled.

Paul called immediately after I left a voicemail for José.  
“Annie, I’m on speaker with Mom, Jenny, and Alyssa, and they all want to know how you know Christian Grey.” I heard giggling in the background. I threw up my hands in dismay.  
“I really, truly don’t!”  
“Well, Alyssa’s about to break up with me and go after Grey if you’re not—hey ow, ow!”  
“I’ll see you tomorrow, guys, byeee,” I said and disconnected as quickly as possible.

I’d pushed my luck for as long as I could, and at 9:52 a.m. I screwed my courage to the sticking plate and dialed Grey’s number.  
“Grey,” said a clipped voice.  
“Hello, yes, sorry. This is Annie Steele?” I said. Why did I always apologize for calling people? That was a terrible habit.  
“Annie, hello,” he said warmly, and I was taken aback. He’d never used my first name before.  
I proceeded to ask him about the photo shoot, irrationally worried he’d changed his mind but he quickly agreed and informed me he’d have his assistant call Kate with the details. The Heathman. Tomorrow, ten a.m.  
“You’ll be accompanying them, of course,” Grey concluded. I didn’t know what to say. There was a few seconds of dead air on the line before I finally blurted, “Sure!”  
“I’ll see you then,” he said smoothly and behind me I could see Kate on her own phone, fist-pumping and hissing through her teeth, “The Heathman, yesssss!”  
I’d been to the Heathman before, but never as a guest. My dad and my uncle both worked there when I was a kid and told me wild stories of rich, entitled customers. It would feel weird to go back there again to encounter yet another wealthy guest who likely had no reason to see me as any kind of equal. I didn’t want to go for my own personal reasons, but now I was committed to it.

Grey’s magical Nordic elves did an admirable job: on arriving at the Heathman we were ushered into a very posh suite complete with charcuterie boards and champagne laid out for us. I noted that the only part of the Heathman that had changed since my childhood was the addition of larger TVs and wi-fi access. The four of us (myself, Kate, Travis, and José) busied ourselves working out the logistics of the shoot, when the man himself came in. Every head swiveled around to look and you’d have thought the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. With his hair damp from a shower and looking more comfortable in a less formal suit, I realized Kate was right: he was that hot, damn it.

Grey shook my hand (shock, shock) and I made all the proper introductions. Grey asked José, “Where do you want me?” and I thought José would faint.  
“We’ll start by the big picture window,” José managed to get out, then muttered to me sotto voce, “Hail Mary, full of grace, please let him come on my face.”  
“Jesus!” I hissed at him, lightly smacking his arm.  
José just laughed, crossed himself and started to adjust the settings on his camera.

They started to work together in earnest and I had to stifle a nervous giggle when I was reminded of Zoolander. However, Grey’s eyes met mine for a moment and I quickly collected myself. I thought it would be an ordeal, but once even Grey began to relax, it was actually kind of a fun experience.

After an hour, the shoot wound down and we began to pack up. Grey took me by the elbow and said, “Walk with me, Annie.” Not a question. I walked with him to the doorway where he again asked, but not asked, “Have coffee with me.”

I was both flummoxed and flattered, but elation quickly gave way to disappointment. Remembering, I said, “I’d love to, but I drove my friends here today, they’d have no way to get home.” Grey nodded, then opened the door and gestured someone over. “Taylor,” Grey said quietly, “Take the town car, drive Miss Steele’s friends anywhere they need to go.”

“You bet,” Taylor cheerfully agreed and entered the suite to help an astonished Kate with the equipment. Curious how wealth seemed to make problem solving so simple.  
Kate pulled me to the side and said, “Just promise you’ll be careful.”  
“If you hand me a condom, I’m just going to laugh,” I said.  
“No,” Kate said, being uncharacteristically serious, “I mean, I did slip some condoms into your purse, but that’s not what I mean. Just like, guard your heart. Okay?”  
I was touched, but also weirded out. “You have nothing to worry about, believe me,” I said, hugging her, then bid farewell to Travis and José and walked with Grey out of the suite.

As we waited for the elevator door to open, Grey made a valiant attempt at small talk, only to be interrupted by the ding of the elevator door. The door opened to reveal a young couple passionately making out less than two feet from us. They leaped apart as if suddenly electrocuted and I heard myself say, “It’s okay, we’ll grab the next one, please go on.” As the door closed, Grey and I looked at each other and we both burst into unexpected laughter. It was nice to see a crack in that immaculate brick wall.  
“What is it with elevators?” He sighed, wiping his eye with his knuckle.

Once outside, Grey offered me his arm like an old-time gentleman, and I took it, feeling a pleasant buzz at the physical closeness. Inside the coffee shop, I ordered an Oolong tea (wasn’t about to risk coffee breath, not today) and he got for himself one of those decorative lattes. I noted with approval that he tipped the barista and treated them respectfully. Can tell a lot about someone by the way they treat servers.

He settled into a chair across from me and I was struck by how self-assured and casually he held himself, as if he owned the world and everything in it. I was envious of that.  
“Tell me about the man in the hardware store the other day,” Grey said, stirring his coffee.  
“Paul?” I said, thoroughly confused.  
“Mm,” he said. “You seemed close and I didn’t want to step on any toes, so to speak.”  
Relieved, I half-laughed, “Paul is great and so is his fiancée Alyssa. In fact, I’m going to their wedding next month.”  
Grey leaned back and nodded, seemingly in approval.  
“Tell me about your family. Do you have people here?” he asked. I suppose it was my turn for an interview now.  
“My mom and step-dad live in Sacramento. They like it a lot down there.”  
“Siblings?”  
“No, just me.”  
“And your father?”  
I thought of Dad, of the Heathman, of the patio fairy lights he strung up in the back yard one August night.  
“He died when I was twelve.”  
“I’m sorry,” Grey said, looking uncomfortable.  
“It’s okay. I mean, not—okay, but I am okay.” I’d long since gotten used to the awkward reactions of others when they heard that. No one ever really knows what to say.  
“What about you?” I said. “Family, that is.”  
He drummed two fingers against his cheek and shrugged as if the subject was of no interest. “Mother’s a doctor, Dad’s a lawyer. They live in Seattle.” Back to the brick wall. I remembered that he was adopted. I wanted to ask about it, but thought it would be a bad idea to push it.  
“You have siblings, right?”  
A brother and a sister, yes. Elliot works construction in New York, and Cassie is studying at the Sorbonne.”  
I perk up. “Paris! I’ve always imagined how amazing that must be. What’s she studying?”  
“Semiotics,” he said distractedly. “Have you ever been?”  
“No,” I said, “But I know it’s the home of Proust, Camus, oh uh, Flaubert! So many great authors.”  
“Want to go?”  
I couldn’t tell if he’s being serious or not.  
“Well, doesn’t everyone?” I said, trying for levity. His phone began buzzing nonstop and he excused himself: I was incredibly relieved to excuse him. It occurred to me that jetting off to Paris just because, is something he could do without a second thought. Money again.

Grey returned and apologetically explained he had to go see to his work. It was no problem as I had papers of my own that I’d been neglecting. He walked me to the crosswalk, holding my elbow again, then taking my hand as we crossed the street, as though I were a child he had to guide across to safety. He looked down at me with an expression that was alien to me. I wanted something from him, to get some kind of connection, but couldn’t decide what. It was so disorienting.


	4. Chapter 4

On the other side of the street, Grey abruptly stopped and we shared a held gaze for all of two seconds before he said flatly, “I won’t see you again.”  
I can’t lie, my jaw actually dropped. What had I done wrong?! Next to us, a cyclist whizzed by easily going 30 miles per hour. He was so close that he clipped my leg.  
“Jesus Hell!” I yelled, angry, embarrassed, frustrated. Alarmed, Grey pulled me aside and tried to examine my leg. “It’s fine,” I grunted, “he got my pants leg, that’s all.” Sure enough, there was a rip in the jeans.  
“I, uh. Sorry about this. I just. Can’t.” Grey stammered the words and stumbling slightly, strode away. I stood there, feeling numb. I’d had relatively few dates in my life, most of them awkward at best, but this marked the first time a date had told me without hesitation that he didn’t want to see me ever again. That… was a new kind of humiliation.

I don’t know what horrified Kate more: to see me utterly dejected or the giant hole in the jeans I’d borrowed from her. “I’ll buy you a new pair,” I promised her. She hand-waved it away, saying, “Spill. What. Did. He. Do.”  
I flopped down on the couch. “I mean… nothing? He just realized who he was with and came to his senses.”  
“Don’t get down on yourself like that,” Kate scolded.  
“It would never work anyway. He’s got more money than god, tromping around like he’s, he’s, Ozymandias or something, lording over all the mortals.” I groused.  
“Now that’s more like it!” Kate said, pouring herself more coffee. “A good old-fashioned bitch fest! Want me to photoshop a booger on his nose for the article?”  
Kate always knows how to make me laugh.

Over the next few days, both Kate and I jumped through the last bureaucratic hoops on the way to our graduation. I hit send on the last email and leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling in disbelief that this era was nearly over.  
“Annie, package!” Kate yelled. “What did you order?!”  
“Nothing! Is it from my mom?” I yelled back, going into the living room to investigate.  
“If it’s any of that Monat stuff, just throw it away, it’ll make your hair fall out,” I told Kate as I opened the box (not from Mom, not Amazon, no name or return address). Inside were three heavy cloth-bound books, looking and smelling old and expensive. There was no invoice, only a handwritten card that read:

“Love is not vain because it is frustrated, but because it is fulfilled. The people we love turn to ashes when we possess them.”

“Proust,” I said, handing Kate the card.  
“Oh my god. Oh my god,” Kate gasped, opening the book. “Annie, these are first edition of your boy Marcel. These are—priceless!”

I breathed in the scent of the books, already knowing who’d sent them. “The price is me, isn’t it?”  
“He could just be apologizing,” Kate said.  
“Buying stuff, no matter how nice the stuff, isn’t apologizing,” I said and quoted Proust again: “‘Like many intellectuals, he was incapable of saying a simple thing in a simple way.’”  
“Such a nerd,” Kate said.  
“I’m not accepting these,” I said firmly.  
“Sleep on it, but not until after we celebrate us,” Kate said. “Put on something fun, we’re meeting José at The Crows Nest.”

José was already half in the bag when we got there: he’d been fighting with Travis all week and was melancholy. “When you move to Seattle, can I come with you?” he drawled, head lolling on my shoulder. “I’m the best photog-gruffer in the world. I can make bitchin’ tamales.”  
“Nobody makes tamales like you,” I said, squeezing his hand.  
“Except for mi abuela,” José sighed.  
José and I clinked shot glasses and knocked them back (whiskey, ugh) as we watched Kate dance with her on-again-off-again boy Levi.  
“Taylor was so cool. We talked about music the whole drive back home. We drove Katy crazy,” José said. “Travis got jealous.”  
“Desire makes everything blossom; possession makes everything wither and fade,” I said, already tipsy, again quoting Proust.  
“What’s that all about?” José asked, and I ended up telling him the whole misadventure I’d had with Grey, while we drank more beer.  
“Ohhhh my god, that pendejo,” José laughed. “That rich prick, how dare he think he can buy you?”  
“Yeah!” I said unevenly. “…yeah! Right?!”  
“Right!” he cried, “You should tell his ass what for!”  
“Right,” I said grimly, pulling out my phone, and blearily autocorrected my way through a drunk text diatribe to Grey, hit send, then immediately regretted it as my stomach began turning. What. Had. I Done.

“I’m gonna puke,” I said flatly.  
José grabbed my wrist with alarming speed and hauled me out the back, grabbing some bottled waters as he did so. I vomited into the recycling bin and I’m pretty certain got vomit in my hair.  
“You’re terrible at this, mi tesoro,” said José, pouring water into my hair.  
“Thanks,” I said, chugging water.  
My phone started buzzing. Oh my god, it was Grey calling. I stared at it in horror until José said, “Oh just answer it, what have you got to left to lose?” He was right. I answered, knowing full well I was still drunk.  
“Annie? Where are you? Are you all right?”  
“… Desire makes everything blossom; possession makes everything wither and fade,” I more or less slurred.  
“Annie, have you been drinking?” his voice was more tense than I’d ever heard.  
“I’ve imbibed at the top of the Crows Nest, with friends who don’t try to… buy my friendship.” I said, feeling incredibly self-righteous. Behind me, I could hear José throwing up.  
“Stay exactly where you are. Do not try to drive anywhere, do you understand me?” Grey instructed.  
“That’s what Uber is for. That bicyclist should’ve run you over,” I said, disconnecting the call. “He can’t find us, he doesn’t even know where we are,” I said to José.  
“You actually just told him,” he said, gargling water.

José and I finally felt stable enough to go back and call that Uber, we said our respective good-byes to everyone and sat on the curb out front to wait for the driver. My head was still spinning when I saw two Christian Greys walking towards me.

“Jesus in a bucket,” I muttered and struggled to stand up. Grey caught me, and held me upright with his arm around my waist. “Are you both alright?” Grey said, his face betraying no emotion.

“I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I never should have texted you, that was out of line.” Grey seemed completely uninterested in my apology. José gestured, unsure of what to do.  
“I’ll get her someplace safe,” Grey said. “It’s handled.”  
“Annie?” José asked me.  
“I’ll be okay. You take the Uber and get home safe,” I told him.  
Grey walked me over to his town car and I asked, “Where are we going?”  
“Back to the Heathman,” he said. “I’ve been staying there.”  
“My dad died there,” I told him, and then promptly lost consciousness.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s a gentle August night after ten p.m. in the year 2005. I can hear crickets. I see the denimed legs of my dad’s jeans as he’s descending from the stepladder. “Looks nice, right?” is the echo of his voice as I look up, seeing shooting stars falling into my backyard, rainbow speckled stars that turn into regular old patio lights. But that’s okay, because it’s something he made for me, something magical out of the mundane. I can smell the freshly-mown grass, the scent of garden hose water on concrete. This is the last evening we spend together.

I came to slowly, my cheeks wet. Was I dead?  
I opened my eyes and sat up: one of the Heathman suites, my god. No wonder I’d been dreaming of Dad. The subconscious is a strange thing. Grey must have dragged my dead weight here. I examined myself: intact, still fully clothed, my feet were bare and my sneakers and socks were neatly placed on the floor by the nightstand.

On the nightstand was a glass of orange juice and four ibuprofen tablets: I gulped them all down frantically. This was clearly not Grey’s first hangover rodeo. My phone buzzed and I grabbed it: dozens of notifications, messages from Kate, José, even Travis and Levi, all asking if I was okay. I messaged everyone back letting them know that I was not dead in a ditch and that I was sorry if I vomited on them at any point. Oh my god, the shame of my White Girl Wasted antics finally came crashing down on me. I swallowed hard and looked at the drunk text I’d sent Grey: mostly autocorrected word salad, but the word DICKHEAD in all caps came through loud and clear.

The door opened (he didn’t knock) and Grey walked in, sweaty from a workout, looking absurdly normal in gym shorts and a t-shirt. I scrambled up, trying to untangle myself from the twist of sheets and blankets. “I’m so sorry,” I blab, “I’ll leave right now.”

Grey waved his hands in a settle-down motion and sat next to me on the bed. Even sweaty, he smelled amazing, like sandalwood and citrus.  
“Feeling better?” he asked.  
“Yes, much, thank you.” I said, the sheer embarrassment of it all keeping me from meeting his gaze. “Please tell me I didn’t do anything horrible to you.”  
“Not at all,” he said, his voice very measured, then asked, “Are you all right with, ah, being here?”  
I look up. “Here? As in, the bed?”  
“The hotel itself,” Grey said.  
What had I said to him?  
“I… should get going,” I said. “Thank you for looking after me in this state. I know it couldn’t have been pleasant.”  
The ghost of a smile crossed his face. “I’ve had worse nights. When’s the last time you ate something?”  
“Uh, bar peanuts.” They didn’t stay down.  
He leaned closer, so close our foreheads were almost touching. I could feel his breath. Our eyes finally met, and up close I could see flecks of gold in the gray eyes. He abruptly stood up, toweled his head and walked to the bathroom. “I’ll shower first. Breakfast is on the way up. You’re going to eat something.” He said it with such authority, as if I wasn’t allowed to refuse. It rankled me, even though he was right. Food would be wise.

Before going into the bathroom, Grey gestured to a shopping bag on the sofa, saying “I took the liberty of having some clean clothing brought in. I had to guess the size.” Once I heard the shower start, I gave into my curiosity and poked through the bag. I gasped as I pulled out a blue blouse—I recognized it, but had only ever seen it on eBay: Marc Jacobs, retailing at $325. The shirt I was wearing was a $15 thing from Target. Either Grey went out of his way to get wildly expensive clothes that may or may not fit, or money was so inconsequential to him that dropping hundreds of dollars on a whim wasn’t an issue. There was no way I’d wear these clothes. Maybe that was just pride sneaking in, but I didn’t care. I had no interest in being anyone’s sugar baby.

Once I was able to shower, I started feeling more human again. I had to admit, taking a shower with tremendous water pressure and fancy soaps was a luxury I didn’t get to take advantage of very often. While soaping myself up, the horny-ho voice in my head whispered: “He was naked in the very spot you’re standing in now”, which gave me quite a jolt.

Got dressed and found Grey sitting at a table sipping coffee, tapping on a tablet, behind a large spread of food and I was suddenly ravenous. He waved me over: “Sit, eat.” I My brain flashed to that scene in Pretty Woman where Richard Gere has room service bring up everything on the menu for a freshly scrubbed Julia Roberts. Richard Gere was far less intimidating than this man.

Grey frowned. “You’re not wearing anything from the bag,” he observed.  
“It’s a generous gesture,” I said, after chewing on a croissant, “but it’s not necessary.”  
“I can see you’re going to be a challenge,” Grey said, sipping his coffee. “Tea?”  
I was surprised to see he’d ordered some Oolong tea for me. Nice touch.  
The clothes had reminded me: “May I ask why you sent those books?”  
Grey gently lay the tablet on the table. “Perhaps it was my way of attempting an apology for the way I rushed off the other day.”  
A purchase is not an apology, I thought, but didn’t say.  
“I can’t accept them.”  
“And why not.” Grey looked annoyed.  
“They’re too much, too… I won’t be obligated to anyone. I don’t need a… a sugar daddy.”  
“Well,” Grey said, wiping his mouth, smiling behind the cloth napkin. “That… is something I’ve never been accused of being.”  
“I’m not trying to be churlish or ungrateful,” I said in a rush, twisting my napkin in my hands. “I’m just struggling to quantify exactly what this is, I mean, what’s happening.”  
“What do you want to happen?” Grey said, leaning forward.  
“I don’t want things… I want… intimacy.” I managed to stammer out, surprised at my own audacity. “I want to be touched, by you.” The horny-ho in my head was fist pumping in absolute glee.  
Grey was quiet, shifting in his chair as if uncomfortable. “Annie,” he finally said. “I’m not relationship material. I’m selfish. And the way I want things is very precise. It’s unlikely you and I would ever be on the same page.”  
“Then why am I even here?”  
“Because that’s what I wanted.”  
“Well, then…. “ I said, feeling excited and yet, so totally one with this. In for a penny? “… If you don’t actually want me in any capacity, then I really do need to go.”  
“All right! Not so fast!” Grey said, looking amused. “You’ve forced my hand. What are you doing tonight?”  
Oh god, yeah.  
“Working until four. Tomorrow Kate and I finish the move to Seattle.”  
“What area?”  
“Downtown.”  
“Perfect,” he said, nodding. “Tonight, I need to show you some things and go over some rules. And afterwards if you’re still game, then maybe we can reach an understanding.”  
He spoke of us like we were negotiating a business deal. But then, that was the language of his world, maybe the only language he knew.

I was finishing my last bits of cleanup in the bathroom as Grey was talking business on his phone. I picked up his toothbrush, still wet, idly wondering if I dared use it. Part of me wanted to, but another part of me, a resentful part of me wanted to swirl it in the toilet. I wanted him and I hated him all at once, and it was incredibly confusing. His authoritarian tendencies, his arrogance, the casual way he wielded his power over others—all of these were reasons not to do this. After all, what does a member of the Inner Party want with a prole? I mean my god, I could hear him on the phone chartering a helicopter like it was nothing. Maybe this was all a mistake. Maybe I should have taken him at his word and walked away. I left the toothbrush alone and swished with a bit of the hotel mouthwash instead.

In the elevator, my gut was a roiling tornado of conflict, so much so that Grey took me by surprise leaning in, his forehead touching mine. Was this it? The first kiss? The tension was unbearable and yet I knew he’d be displeased if I made a move.

The elevator doors opened. “Tonight,” he said, and walked away.


	6. Chapter 6

Taylor, always sweet and charming, dropped me off at my house. I waved to the car receding down the road and opened my door, dreading the Spanish Inquisition that would be sure to take place, only to be greeted by a thoroughly unconscious José sprawled on the couch. Leaning out of the kitchen, Kate held a finger to her lips in the universal shhhh-motion and waved frantically for me to join her.

“Is he okay?” I asked, looking back in concern.  
“Yeah, he woke up at three a.m., barfed some more, drank some Gatorade, then passed out again.” Kate tsked-tsked.  
“How did he end up here?!”  
“He gave the Uber driver our address last night. It’s fine, he can sleep,” Kate said. “I’m more interested in hearing about your night. Did you cash in your v-card?”  
“Jesus, Kate!” I choked, pouring myself coffee, “No! I mean, not yet.”  
“But maybe?”  
“Fingers crossed,” I said.

The rest of the work day was a blur, even though I was acutely aware of how bare I was down in my nethers, thanks to Kate’s insistence that I use Nair, which was in itself a very strange experience. I kept wondering what Grey had meant by “going over rules”. Would I be expected to play some kind of weird sex game? Did he have masked orgies ala Eyes Wide Shut? I was intrigued, but also nervous. I was shivering with antici… pation.

I stepped out of the store just as Grey’s town car pulled up, and a familiar face emerged to open the door for me.  
“Miss Steele!” said Taylor.  
“Hi, Taylor,” I said, grinning.  
“How’s José?” Taylor asked, as I got into the back seat.  
“Wildly hungover, but recovering,” I said, then turned. “Mr. Grey.”  
“Annie,” he said, serene as a Buddha.  
“So, where are we going?”  
“Do you have a fear of heights, Miss Steele?”  
I glanced at him; why, was he taking me skydiving? “No… not an irrational fear anyway.”  
“Good,” he said.

The car pulled into a place I’d driven by a dozen times, but had never really noticed: a Heliport. Lines of helicopters (News stations, Hospitals, Police copters) surrounded a large building, one that Grey confidently led me into. A genial man in a bomber jacket approached us, saying “Mr. Grey, I’m Joe. I’ll be your pilot tonight. Follow me please.”  
Pilot?!  
Where exactly were we going?  
As if reading my mind, Grey leaned over to me and said, “Joe will be flying us to my home in Seattle. It should only be a short trip.” I bounced on my heels, getting nervous. I’d been on planes, but never a helicopter. This, THIS, was the meaning of the conversation I’d heard him having while I was debating whether I should defile his toothbrush. I felt a stab of guilt.

Grey helped me put on the headset (cans, he called them) and strap into the cockpit, smiling wolfishly as he adjusted the harness a little too tight for my liking, but I suppose it was for safety purposes. I heard the tinny voice of Joe the pilot say “Roger tower, Charlie Tango set, over and out.” Grey placed his hand on my knee, saying, “And we’re off.”

The lights below receded quickly as we flew into the night. I had to admit: it was exhilarating. Less than an hour later, we landed on a helipad atop a building that said Grey House. Of course Grey had a helipad on top of a building. My heart was pounding in my throat as the helicopter set down. It was a high wind on the roof of the building, and Grey shielded me as we half-walked, half-ran to the rooftop door. I still didn’t completely know where I was.

A short elevator ride later, I found myself standing in the foyer of Grey’s home. Like his office, it was elegant, austere, and a little frightening.  
“Come,” Grey said, beckoning me to the bar. “I’m opening a Sauvignon Blanc. Have a glass.”  
“After last night, I feel I should stick with a Perrier,” I said, with what I hoped was a dry humor. I had the notion I would need to be sober for whatever was about to happen.  
“Fair enough,” Grey said, pouring himself a glass. “Ordinarily, I’d have you drink what I’m drinking, but this time I’ll make an exception. Are you hungry?”  
“No, no thank you,” I said, looking around at what I was reasonably sure were Picassos and Kandinskys on the walls. “Are these… original paintings?”  
Grey chortled, “They’re not stolen, if that’s what you mean.” He sipped his wine as I held my water like Joan of Arc clutching her cross. What was about to happen? What?

“You look like you’re about to burst, Annie,” noted Grey.  
“That’s what I feel like,” I said, setting down my water and approached him, extending my hand to touch the collar of his shirt. Now or never. Grey took my wrist and said, “I need to show you something first. It’s important.” He then left the room. I was baffled and starting to become frustrated. Knowing my luck, he could have had a version of Bertha Mason locked in an attic.

Grey returned with a manila envelope and wordlessly handed it to me. I took out the papers inside and flipped through them.  
“An NDA?” I said. “Are… are you serious?”  
“Unfortunately yes, Annie. I’m not like most men, and I can’t enter into the situations that other people do without protecting myself.” He looked simultaneously embarrassed and defiant. “I’d understand if you don’t want to, but if you want to proceed with this, then I have to insist.”  
I examined the pages, finally asking him, “What would be worse–other people knowing your personal business, or me having to explain to Kate, or José, or my mother that I can’t tell them anything about the man I’m seeing because he had me sign an NDA?” I picked up a pen off the table and clicked it open. Grey opened and closed his mouth, clenching his jaw. I signed my name. In for a penny.

I handed the papers back to him and he sealed them in the envelope, looking unhappy. I said, “Is this an atypical requirement before you make love to someone?” Grey rubbed his forehead, then said haltingly, “I don’t… make love. That isn’t what this is about. This could get complicated. You still have other papers to look over if you want to do this.”  
Okay. What the hell. He wanted to get weird? I could get weird.  
I shrugged and said, “Bring it, Mr. Grey. Do your worst.”  
He stared at me. “All right. Come with me. You still have the option to say no at any time.”  
He led me to a heavy, locked door, produced an ornate key, and opened it. We walked into the room that he obviously loved more than any other.

I shouldn’t have been surprised. All the signs had been there in front of me since the beginning. His shopping list at the hardware store. His way of giving orders, rather than asking. Even the harness in the helicopter. It had been hiding in plain sight all along.


	7. Chapter 7

One giddy night during sophomore year, Travis, José and I ventured into a downtown sex shop on a lark. It seemed like such a naughty, subversive thing to do at the time. We attempted to look as casual as possible, stifling giggles as we perused the aisles of cheaply made sex toys: pink furry handcuffs, glow-in-the-dark dildos, whips made out of cheap plastic, all of it in gaudy neon packaging that didn’t take itself too seriously—winking at the shopper as if to say “Don’t be nervous, it’s all just a big gag.”

It was the exact opposite experience of the room I was walking through right now. Hanging on the walls were versions of the all the implements I’d seen in the sex shop that night, but these were clearly made from much more expensive materials. They were lovingly cared for and took themselves far more seriously. Polished wooden paddles, leather riding crops oiled to a perfect sheen, oxblood leather benches and silk pillows everywhere. If the sex shop had been a carnival of kink, then this place was a religious shrine dedicated to the same.

Grey was staring at me with an inscrutable look on his face as I examined the floggers, the cuffs, the chains, like a student in a museum. Grey cleared his throat. “Annie?”

I turned to him. “BDSM. Right?”  
He looked deeply uncomfortable. “I’m a Dominant. That means—“  
“I know what it means,” I said. I’d seen Vice documentaries about this, but never the real thing before. “… this is why you need the NDA.”  
“I know this is a lot to take in,” Grey said. “But I wanted to share this with you.”  
“So…” I said, trailing my hand along a mahogany chest of drawers, “Would I be your submissive? Or would you be mine?”  
Grey actually smiled. “You would definitely be mine.”

“Why? Why me?” 

“Because I like you. Because I want you. You can be mine.” Grey said, as if it were that simple. I got that spiky feeling rising up in me again, that need to push back.  
“What if I’m a terrible, useless sub?” I ask, squaring my shoulders. “What if you whip me and torture me and my only reaction is to tell you what a loser you are?”  
Grey nodded, as if unsurprised and said, “There’s a word for that too.”  
“What is it?”  
“Come on back,” Grey said. “We’ll eat and I can tell you more.”

Over a fruit and cheese plate (which I had to admit was exsquisite) Grey handed me another bottle of lemon Perrier, asking if I had any questions for him.

Opening the bottle, I said, “How many? I mean, women before me?”  
“Fifteen,” Grey said, perfectly stoic.  
“Wow.”  
“Feeling a bit of jealousy?” he smirked.  
“More just… curiosity. I don’t like the thought of being one in a series of basic pleasure models.” I said, taking a swig.  
Grey looked serious. “Annie, I don’t think of you as a robot, or as a number. I wish I could express it to you what it means that I even brought you here in the first place.”  
“What is it that you get out of all this? What does it all mean?” I asked.  
“It’s what I need for satisfaction, both sexual and emotional. It’s a basic part of myself. It always has been.” Grey shrugged. “I suppose you should read the contract.”  
“A legal contract? Like the NDA?”  
Grey took me to his study and handed me a single page of paper, no envelope this time. He sipped his wine as I read it.

RULES  
Obedience:  
The Submissive will obey any instructions given by the Dominant immediately without hesitation or reservation and in an expeditious manner. The Submissive will agree to any sexual activity deemed fit and pleasurable by the Dominant excepting those activities which are outlined in hard limits (Appendix 2). She will do so eagerly and without hesitation.  
Sleep:  
The Submissive will ensure she achieves a minimum of seven hours sleep a night when she is not with the Dominant.  
Food:  
The Submissive will eat regularly to maintain her health and wellbeing from a prescribed list of foods (Appendix 4). The Submissive will not snack between meals, with the exception of fruit.  
Clothes:  
During the Term, the Submissive will wear clothing only approved by the Dominant. The Dominant will provide a clothing budget for the Submissive, which the Submissive shall utilize. The Dominant shall accompany the Submissive to purchase clothing on an ad hoc basis. If the Dominant so requires, the Submissive shall during the Term any adornments the Dominant shall require, in the presence of the Dominant and any other time the Dominant deems fit.  
Exercise:  
The Dominant shall provide the Submissive with a personal trainer four times a week in hour-long sessions at times to be mutually agreed between the personal trainer and the Submissive. The personal trainer will report to the Dominant on the Submissive’s progress.  
Personal Hygiene/Beauty:  
The Submissive will keep herself clean and shaved and/or waxed at all times. The Submissive will visit a beauty salon of the Dominant’s choosing at times to be decided by the Dominant, and undergo whatever treatments the Dominant sees fit.  
Personal Safety:  
The Submissive will not drink to excess, smoke, take recreational drugs, or put herself in any unnecessary danger.  
Personal Qualities:  
The Submissive will not enter into any sexual relations with anyone other than the Dominant. The Submissive will conduct herself in a respectful and modest manner at all times. She must recognize that her behavior is a direct reflection on the Dominant. She shall be held accountable for any misdeeds, wrongdoings, and misbehavior committed when not in the presence of the Dominant.  
Failure to comply with any of the above will result in immediate punishment, the nature of which shall be determined by the Dominant.

My mouth hung open. I read it. Then read it again.  
Was this a fucking joke?  
I looked up at Grey. He was looking to me, to the paper, then back to me, as if nervous.  
I tapped the Clothing Clause with my nail and said, “Is this because I wouldn’t wear the Marc Jacobs blouse?”  
“No,” he said. “That’s a standard rule.”  
“To be a sugar daddy?” I asked, my mind reeling.  
“To be obedient. The clothing part applies only when you’re actually with me, but it doesn’t matter if it’s clothes, or shoes, or the color lipstick you wear. It has to be what I decide, and you have to decide to obey those rules.”  
I stared at him. My brain was short-circuiting.  
“There’s more; my own limits,” he said, gesturing for me to turn the page over. Oh god, of course there would be. I flipped it over and read:

Hard Limits  
No acts involving fire play  
No acts involving urination or defecation and the products thereof  
No acts involving needles, knives, piercing, or blood  
No acts involving gynecological medical instruments  
No acts involving children or animals  
No acts that will leave any permanent marks on the skin  
No acts involving breath control

“Jesus Christ!” I said. “Really? Seriously?”  
“Unless you’re into defecation as recreation?” said Grey, tilting his head.  
“No!” I gasped. “No, I just mean… this,” as I waved my hand over the page, “This is… a lot.” My concern was what had to have happened for Grey to have learned these limits in the first place.  
“You don’t have to decide tonight, but it’s important to establish limits especially since I don’t know yours yet.”  
“Well, neither do I really.”  
His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”  
“Well…,” I said, hating this part. So awkward. “I have some experience, but have never… ah, made it to home base, so to speak.”  
Grey pinched his fingers to the bridge of his nose, and said, “Annie. Are you trying to tell me that you’re a virgin?”  
I nodded, saying “Does that make a difference?”  
“Don’t be naïve, of course it does!” he said, throwing up his hands. I crossed my arms, feeling vulnerable and defensive. “I mean… in an ideal world, it…” he said, trailing off. “I just wish you’d told me this sooner.” Grey walked out of the study, looking defeated. I was starting to get frustrated. What exactly did he want from me?  
“Maybe this shouldn’t happen after all. Maybe I’m letting my selfishness override what you might actually need,” Grey mumbled, uncharacteristically somber, his voice strangely thick.

I followed him back into the kitchen and saw that the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc was nearly empty. To my surprise, I realized that Grey was actually tipsy. I walked to him, took his hand, and led him over to a pristine white couch nearly identical to the one I’d seen in his office the day we met. He flopped down unglamorously, draping an arm over his eyes, legs up. What a role reversal. I sat down on the carpet next to him, resting my chin on my arms.

Without opening his eyes, Grey said, “Can I… ask you a personal question.” His consonants were fuzzy.  
“Of course,” I said, shifting my weight.  
“… how did you lose your dad.”  
I sat up straight, alarmed. How was something like that even on his radar?  
“He, uh… he died of a heart attack. On the job. He worked at the Heathman for like, ten years as a maintenance guy. Fixing appliances and such,” I sighed, my fingers running through the piled carpet. “He collapsed with the tool box in his hand. Some guests found him, called 911, but… yeah.”  
“I’m sorry,” Grey mumbled.  
“Me too,” I said, smiling at him and touched his hair. “The photo shoot was the first time I’d been back there in years.”  
Grey mumbled, “I’m glad y’were there.” His breathing steadily deepened and I realized he’d fallen asleep. I got up and pulled a blanket off of what I assumed to be a guest bed and covered him up with it.

I wandered through the penthouse for a few minutes, taking everything in, staring at my distorted reflection in the picture window. My phone buzzed: it was Kate. I texted her back, letting her know I’d be crashing with Grey. She responded with a row of hearts and eggplant emojis. I settled into a cushy chair across from the couch, and pulled up Google on my phone. I was going to dig into this the only way a true dork could: with research.

I started with “the psychology of BDSM”: pulled up a lot of articles and a surprising number of academic papers. After poring through those and soaking up the lingo (turns out the word Grey was referring to me as was “brat”, a definition I didn’t think quite matched how I was feeling), I looked up “neuroscience + BDSM” and found a lot of good reading about the brain chemicals that get released during a dom/sub scene: how the dom experiences “flow” and the sub experiences a sort of floaty euphoria. Finally I scoured through the column archives of Savage Love, plucking through all the questions and queries from doms and subs and the occasional odd advice column from a pro dominatrix. One of the specific things Dan Savage said stuck with me (and I’m only paraphrasing): there are two kinds of kinky people in the world. Those who were born kinky (Grey, obviously) and those who fell in love with someone kinky and adopted it in order to be with their partner. Could I potentially become the latter?

The gears in my brain finally began to click into place: I’d been pushing back against Grey every step of the way. Refusing his books, refusing his clothes, refusing his very will. My itchy need to rebel against him was constantly at the forefront of my mind. If I wanted this to happen, I’d have to make the conscious choice to submit to him. To actually allow him to have that power over me.

Could I do it? What would it cost me personally to do so? Would I remain myself if I fully let go? If the contract was ironclad, then I guess I was in no real physical danger, but… I still couldn’t bring myself to fully trust him, even though I wanted to. And what would be the end result? A quid pro quo of sexual activity? Trading a whipping session for a cuddling session? Could I live like that?

My mind went back to the room. THAT room. I realized what bothered me wasn’t the handcuffs or the feather tickler things. Those were just instruments. What bothered me… what nagged at me, was his need for absolute, relentless control. It went against every part of me to my absolute core. I knew down in my gut that I could not, would not submit. No matter how much I liked him.

My phone beeped: 10% power. Oh my god, it was three a.m. I laid my head down on the arm of the soft, giant chair. I’d be a mess for the move tomorrow.


	8. Chapter 8

Both Grey and I awoke with a jolt on hearing a voice say, “Having a sleepover, are we now?” I nearly fell out of the chair. I looked up to see an elegant older woman in a fine linen suit, smiling sardonically. Behind her was Taylor, looking bewildered.

“Christian, how… wholesome,” she said, her voice dripping with what was likely sarcasm.  
“Ah, Annie,” he said, rubbing his forehead, “meet my mother, Dr. Grace Trevelyan-Grey.”  
“How do you do,” I stammered, clambering out of the chair, my eyes still crusty with sleep and a painful crick in my neck. She only nodded to me, and behind her I was horror-struck to see the contract on the floor next to the table where anyone could get at it. Taylor leaned down and scooped it up, smoothly rolling it into a tight cylinder while winking at me. Bless you for a saint, Taylor.

“I’ve really got to get going,” I said, attempting to collect myself, “We’ve got the move today and Kate’s probably worried and–“  
“It’s alright, Annie,” said Grey, unfolding himself from the couch, “Taylor will get you home. I’ll be in touch about the–“  
“Yes! Yeah. Yes,” I said. My god, I couldn’t leave that room fast enough.

Taylor got me home safe, sound, and in record time. We’d finished the bulk of the move a few days prior and now only had the last bits of our personal things. José was helping out, hoisting boxes into his truck and he asked me, “How’s Taylor?”  
“He and I are Instagram friends now,” I grinned at him. “You should DM him and ask him yourself.”  
“Hooooo!” José chortled and hip-bumped the truck door closed.  
“My best friends are all turbo sluts,” said Kate, holding the back of her hand to her forehead in mock despair.

On my second night in Seattle I met Grey at a posh bar in a hotel downtown.  
“Settled in?” Grey asked.  
“For the most part,” I said, “My job at Valiant House Publishing starts on Wednesday, so I’m pretty excited.”  
Grey motioned to the bartender. “Two Pinot Grigios.”  
“Actually,” I said, interrupting and holding up my hand, “I’d like a Merlot please.”  
Grey frowned, but let it go. From my purse, I pulled out the contract, still rolled up, and slid it across to him.

“Does this mean…?” Grey said, unrolling it.  
“It’s unsigned.” I said quietly.  
Grey looked at me in disappointment. “You won’t reconsider?”  
I shook my head.  
We sat there in silence for a few minutes as the bartender dropped off our drinks.  
“Will you at least stay long enough have this drink with me?” Grey asked.  
“Of course I will,” I said, lifting my glass to his. “Tell you what. Find me in a year’s time and we’ll have another drink together. Deal?”  
“I’ll hold you to it, Miss Steele,” Grey said, toasting me.

Epilogue

As it turned out, it wasn’t actually one year later, but only ten months. José had a gallery opening, and he was adamant that we all show up for it without telling us the details. Once there, I discovered that he’d dedicated an entire wall to all of the people he loved best: stunning black and white portraits of his mom and grandma, of Kate, of me, of Travis and Levi–and of Taylor. My portrait was the only one where the subject wasn’t smiling, but I liked that. I looked like someone to be reckoned with.

When I arrived, there was already a considerable crowd and I was absurdly, selfishly curious to see if anyone circulated around my photo. Few did until an hour in when I spied a tall man with a beautiful, Nordic blonde woman taking in my portrait. Even from the back of him, I could tell who it was. I steered clear, giving him his space and it was actually he who turned around, his face alight on recognizing me.

Grey murmured something to his companion and walked over to me, arms alarmingly outspread. I was so taken aback that I allowed him to embrace me and kiss me on both cheeks, European-style. Jesus in a bucket, he still smelled amazing after all this time. Did I want to smell him? Or just smell like him? Huh. I’d never considered that before.

“It’s good to see you–for so many reasons, Annie,” said Grey, smiling.  
“It’s great to see you too,” I said, and it wasn’t just politeness, I was genuinely happy to see him! “Shall I meet your friend?” I asked, gesturing to the beautiful blonde, who only smiled and bit her lip at me, as if flirting. Well!  
“That’s Gretchen,” Grey said. “We have a… mutually beneficial arrangement.”  
I raised my eyebrows. “That’s, ah… good to know!”  
He leaned in to me and asked, “Have you ever reconsidered? The contract?”  
I touched my forehead to his and squeezed his hand (I was far bolder these days). I whispered, “With all of my heart, no. Never.”  
“Ah well,” he said, raising his head. “Thought I’d at least try. There is one more thing I wanted to show you.”  
“Oh God,” I laughed, “Please tell me it’s not anything legal.”  
“No! No, not really,” Grey said, pulling something out of his jacket. “But it could be something good.” He handed me a brochure.  
“I funded the refurbishment of The Heathman’s library and I wanted to get your permission before the new name became official,” he said. “Nothing is set in stone yet.”  
I opened it up and saw photos of The Heathman library, now full of elegant books, and fine art on the walls. Next to the library’s door there was a gold plaque on the wall that read “The Joseph Steele Memorial Library”.  
My jaw dropped. I looked up at Grey, who said, “Is that alright? To name it after him?” I couldn’t speak, my eyes were burning with tears. “Yeah,” I finally choked out, “He would have liked that.” I tried to give back the brochure, but Grey pressed it into my hands, saying, “Come by and see it at the ribbon cutting. Okay?” I could only nod, mute and overcome.

Behind me I heard Kate calling for me. “Oh! Ah, I’ve gotta run,” I said, half-laughing, half-crying. “Thank you, I–thanks, Mr. Grey.” I quickly turned and tried to rush off.  
“Christian.” I heard his voice behind me.  
I swiveled around.  
“Call me Christian,” he said, smiling.  
“Christian,” I said. “… thank you.”  
We stood there for a few moments, alone together in the crowd of people, smiling, considering one another. Then the moment was over, and we parted again.

“Love is not vain because it is frustrated, but because it is fulfilled. The people we love turn to ashes when we possess them.”  
–Marcel Proust


End file.
